


be safe, you say

by turnpikedarling



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Depression, M/M, Post-Nogitsune
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-19
Updated: 2014-11-19
Packaged: 2018-02-26 07:20:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2643071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turnpikedarling/pseuds/turnpikedarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles has known for years that it would always come down to this: his own drowning, his lost-boy heart, Scott’s sure way of holding on to the things he loves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	be safe, you say

**Author's Note:**

> short post-3b look at stiles, and how stiles and scott might settle into each other.
> 
> originally posted on [tumblr](http://mickeyed.tumblr.com) as an ask-and-response, archiving here.

Stiles goes off like a cherrybomb some days. Everybody sees it when it happens: his sharp knuckles, his straw man eyes, his do-not-touch-this heaving chest. He radiates out across the town, a place that feels too small to hold him anymore, spins his way through it like he’s trying to find anything he knows enough to stop his running. 

It looks different every time; sometimes it’s a credit card and a full tank of gas and radio silence for days, sometimes it’s a can of spray paint tucked into the back pocket of his jeans. Sometimes it’s just his empty hands opening and closing in place around the heavy air before he lands on his knees and finds peace. He crashes through doorways, lets his limbs lead the way, winds up in the middle of soccer fields and parking lots because he likes the open space. It doesn’t feel like anyone’s asking anything of him when he’s that small, when there’s so much unanswered around him.

It isn’t new. Nobody’s really surprised.

Settling back into himself in the after (that’s all it ever is, the after) is different than Stiles thought it would be. All that time spent outside himself, looking at the world like he should be able to do something. He thought being in his own body again would feel warm, that maybe he’d remember all the simple motions and wants of himself.

He doesn’t. He still feels like he’s hovering just above a feeling, out of reach of whatever it is that he knows is there. If only he could feel happy, if only he could feel sad. Everything feels half-empty for awhile. 

For the first few weeks after people say he came back to himself, everybody handles Stiles with too much care. Everyone’s so cautious that he feels like a freshly painted bench, some haphazard wet paint sign hung loosely around his neck: don’t touch, don’t touch, don’t touch. He can’t figure out how to say what he needs. Every dulled moment of distance is a little more breaking and everybody looks at him like he’s already gone.

Stiles feels like someone they’d forgotten how to love, but he barely even feels enough to care.

The only thing that makes sense is Scott. The steady warmth, the unstifled joy of him, the way he looks at Stiles like he still has every piece in the right place.

Stiles has known for years that it would always come down to this: his own drowning, his lost-boy heart, Scott’s sure way of holding on to the things he loves. They never sit down and talk about it, never have a moment; Scott just fits himself against Stiles’ side one day and never leaves. He does it like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. 

Having Scott there is the only thing that matters, in the end. The press of Scott’s thumb into his palm, his breath on Stiles’ collarbone when they lean their heads together. 

Stiles likes the feeling of reminding someone how human he still is, that he’s buried in there somewhere. 

“Hey,” Stiles says one dawn, one hour that could be morning or night depending on whether you’re waking up or falling asleep. The sun’s blue outside the window, early chill despite the light.

Scott hums, rolls over. It’s been weeks since he showed up at the door of Stiles’ room, shrugged his shoulders, toed off his sneakers, climbed in. He’s been staying through til morning, asleep with his arms around Stiles and his chest pressed up against his back. When they sweat through their tshirts they strip and sleep naked and neither of them questions it. Stiles feels safe in Scott’s arms and doesn’t ever wonder why. Scott startles every time Stiles laughs, his eyes go soft in the morning, and Stiles loves seeing him shake the cobwebs out of his head as he focuses in and smiles slow, lazy and syrupy sweet.

“Yeah?” Scott’s blurry, a little hoarse, scratchy morning voice and breath a looming threat.

“Nothing,” Stiles answers, breathing steady for the first time in a month. It’s a welcome change, the air flooding into his lungs and grounding him. “Just making sure you’re here.”

Scott stills in Stiles’ arms, comes to a slow stop and closes his eyes. Stiles watches him a minute as he breathes in and out before he opens them again. Stiles can feel the shift in Scott’s muscles, the way his hand slides slowly upward under the blanket they’re sharing. Scott rests his palm on Stiles’ face, fingers tapping lightly up and down his cheekbone in the early light. Stiles watches, waits, keeps his eyes open as Scott leans in. He watches and watches until the slide of Scott’s mouth over his own isn’t a surprise anymore.

“Yeah, I’m here,” Scott murmurs, pressing forward, and Stiles opens for him. All that energy, the shaking hands, the never-warm. The need to fill a space with destruction just to feel anything. It’s gone in that moment, in the the hard wet press of Scott’s lips, the heat of him propped over Stiles. 

This is something new, hands everywhere, a sleepy drag of Scott’s mouth over Stiles’ stomach. It all makes sense: their rhythm, their refusal to let go. It’s always sort of been like this for the two of them. 

Scott’s nails scratch at his hip and Stiles rolls into it because it would be stupid not to. Not to love this boy, this boy who loves him, and know that neither of them needs saving when they have this. This is all the space he needs, all the parking lots he found himself screaming in. This is every wall of paint and empty road he found a way to destroy, to burn, to ruin so he wouldn’t miss it when he was through. 

Stiles smiles into the middle of their kiss, lost in feeling whole again, and Scott stops, leans back.

“What?” 

“Look at us,” Stiles says, looking at Scott’s hip, his shoulders, his mouth, the sheer amount of skin between them. Stiles glances up and finds Scott smiling down at him, eyes clear and open.

“Yeah,” Scott says, and Stiles’ answering smile finally reaches his eyes again. 

“Look at us.”


End file.
